The Lurch Poem by Alexander Hawkins

A problem lurched - even pickled or loxed
pinkly sweet, it was no less perturbing.
That network of the noosphere, now faux-luxed,
alert, had frissoned with falciforming
thoughts, xenoskeptic tendencies bolloxed
and furthered to forthright bludgeoneering.
I get it - the lascivious pleasing
of a luddite, yes, the dark deceiving

of the vegetive, waiting to be saved,
or rather goaded into ugly fictive,
the compassionate duologue depraved
and corrupted by metanarrative.
In a sense, we all could’ve gone unscathed,
emerging free of the maledictive
consciousness creeping across this sceptered isle
down through to every supermarket aisle…

Analysts expose what’s between the binding -
the multicoloured corridors of stuff,
the electronics department, the outstanding
gamut of ice cream, gluten-free foodstuff
galore, bleaches, nappies, the brain-blinding
mazes of booze and spirits - all this rough
trade in conveniences the actual
method of studying the factual.

All of which leads us to a curio-
sity - not to mention the chocolate! -
a lack of any impresario,
head-honcho, paranoid Apostolate,
no one source of all braggadocio.
That problem I feared, so disconsolate?
Our principles were wrecked and rendered dumb,
our insides assailed too, by Xanthan Gum.